Symphony of a Nameless Blade
First Movement: Heartblade Nestled in the eastern foothills of Lordaeron, the small village of Darrowshire was enjoying a cloudless sky, and a warm afternoon. Tranquility moved throughout the area like a breeze, until it was stopped by the sound of clacking wood on a hilltop. An old man and a young man were sparring with two-handed strikes using long shafts of wood. Soon, the young man fell to the dirt after receiving an overhead blow on the back. By the look of it, this wasn’t the first time he had been floored. His lungs hungrily took in more air to disperse much needed oxygen throughout his body. After a few breaths, he wearily rose to his feet and fell into a stance. “Well, you’ve got determination, I’ll give you that. But determination alone won’t defeat anybody. Your blade is motivated by fear. You defend because you fear the pain of being hit, and you attack recklessly because you can’t control your fear and focus. Don’t come at me with your blade; come at me with your whole body and soul behind your strikes. That is the way of the Heartblade. That is how your father fought.” Yeah, and a lot of damn good it did him, the young man thought bitterly. ‘Daddy died saving us from the monsters.’ That was what his mother told him when he was a child and wanted to know why the other kids had fathers and he didn’t. The Heartblade was a philosophy of swordplay rather than an actual systemized style of combat. His father created it, or so he had been told, and the only man he taught it to was his brother. The young man wanted something more of his father than the memory of his mother’s words, so he asked his uncle to teach him the Heartblade. We’ll see who’s afraid, old man! He lunged forward as his wooden sword shot out towards his uncle’s chest. It would have connected had his uncle not side stepped the thrust and clipped the young man on the shin, sending him to the ground again. “I said to come with your whole body and soul, not piss and vinegar. Though if you’re going to replace fear with a single emotion it might as well be anger.” The young man limped as he got up and turned to face his uncle. “That’s enough training for one day. We’ll resume once you’ve recovered. Get some sleep for now. You have a long day at the barracks tomorrow” Second Movement: Darrowshire and the Damned It had been over two years since that day on the hill, and the young man now found himself on the same hill, looking down on his hometown. He had ridden on orders from besieged Andorhal to warn Darrowshire of Arthas’ army, but it was too late. Corpses were everywhere, both soldier and civilian. Whatever struck here had extinguished all life. It’s not supposed to be like this, damn it! They had Captain Redpath and Davil and his followers. What the hell happened?! Ignoring the death that was everywhere, the young man raced to his house, hoping to find some sign that his family was still alive. When he entered the house, his family was there to greet him. His mother, who had cried when she saw the soot on him from working in the mines as a boy since there were no men in the family, whose skirts had absorbed his tears when he cried for a father that wasn’t there, lunged at him with a clawed hand. Even if he had been expecting the attack, how could he raise his sword against his own mother? Her claws sank into a gap in his armor, and stabbed into his abdomen. His big sister Lisa, who always had his favorite pastry treat for him, came up from behind and bit down next to his left clavicle. Blood ran from the wounds, and tears ran from his eyes as he pushed away from them. They chased him around the house for five more frantic minutes until his back was against a wall and he had nowhere else to run. Their eyes held a sorrowful and pained light, as if they were fully aware of what their undead bodies were doing yet could not stop themselves. Those eyes drew closer, moving in for the kill. Then it happened. Something inside the young man went cold and died. He raised his eyes and no longer saw a mother and sister, only two monsters after his life. A bash from his shield sent one of the monsters stumbling backwards, and slash of his broadsword relieved the other monster of its head. The remaining monster charged and lashed out, but the strike missed as the young man pivoted on his leg and spun until he was facing the monster’s back. His sword arced out and another head rolled across the floor. When he left the house, he saw that the corpses outside had become monsters as well. His orders were now void; Darrowshire had fallen, and in all likelihood, so had Uther, his uncle, and everyone else at Andorhal. There was nowhere left for him to return. He readied his weapons, and charged at the monsters. Third Movement: The Better Part of Valor “Finally awake, eh? Must have hit ya harder than I thought. Sorry about that” The man reached out and offered a handshake to the young man, “The name’s Miller. Who are you?” “Nobody.” “Nobody? Well what I’m supposed to call you?” “I don’t really give a damn.” The young man got up from the hammock he was laying in and took note of his surroundings. Soon it became clear he was on a military ship. “Where am I?” “You’re on a ship out of Lordaeron in a fleet commanded by Lady Proudmoore. We’re headed some place west called Kalimor or something like that.” “Kalimor?!” The young man rose to his feet, “What about Lordaeron?! We have to defend--” “There’s nothing left to defend” Miller said with downcast eyes “I don’t like the taste of it better than anyone else. But right now going west is the only chance we got. When I found you, you were hacking down undead left and right, so intent on fighting that you wouldn’t even listen when I told you about Proudmoore’s orders.” Miller looked the young man in the eyes, “Live to fight another day. We can gather our strength and then someday strike back and retake our home.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The air whistled as the young man practiced his two-handed strikes near the barracks. His newly assigned unit had set up an outpost in a large forest in Kalimdor, not ‘Kalimor’, and recently began a three-sided air battle; the orcs and undead had followed them from Lordaeron. To make matters worse, there was a fourth contender as well. Elves lived here but they were unlike the elves the young man had come to know back home, and they had earned the name “night elves”, both for their appearance and favored time of attack. None of it mattered to the young man, however. In fact, nothing seemed to matter to him anymore. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the alarm bells; an attack had begun. The young man raced to the forefront of the base, and saw that the night elves had destroyed the front gate. They were led by a night elf on top of a big white tiger, and their arrows flew out ahead of them as if to announce their arrival. Live to fight another day. Miller’s words echoed throughout his mind. The young man grinned mirthlessly, “Looks like the day to fight is already here”. Not truly caring whether he lived or died, he took hold of his two-handed sword and set his feet firmly in the ground to meet the charge of a night elf riding a big panther. Fourth Movement: Allia “Sure you don’t wanna head back to the rear? Things’ll get ugly here real soon.” the young man asked the night elf priestess. “The frontline will see more death than the rear. If I am to properly serve Elune, then my place is here. I have told you three times now, Aaryn.” Allia replied in a soft and pleasant voice. She was the one in charge of tending his wounds after his outpost had been overrun. Their leader wanted him dead, but another night elf with antlers coming out of his head persuaded her to take him captive instead. Aaryn gave a light chuckle. “Just makin’ sure.” Aaryn wasn’t really his name, but when Allia had asked him, she wasn’t satisfied with ‘Nobody’ which was the answer he gave to anyone who asked that question; so she thought up a name for him. He thought ‘Aaryn’ was a little silly, but Allia was blind; blind from birth she had told him. Being blind all life couldn’t have been easy, so he thought it best not to give her crap about the name. Besides, it wouldn’t matter in an hour anyway. By some miracle, all of the armies in Kalimdor had agreed to a cease fire so that they could unite against the Scourge and the Legion. They had decided to make their last stand on Mount Hyjal: Proudmoore’s army had the honor and misfortune of holding the front, the orcs would be their support, and the night elves held the rear behind the orcs. Allia didn’t seem to care about the initial positioning though, and she wasn’t the only one. Two other night elves, Tyrande and Shandris, were in the front as well. Aaryn wondered how Allia planned to aid the front being blind and all; she must have had some plan of action given how determined she was. Before Aaryn could speculate on what that plan was, the ground started to rumble, and monstrous screams came up from down the mountain. Alarmed, Allia put her hand on Aaryn’s shoulder, as if to reaffirm he was still there. “What do you see?” “Not a damn thing.” Try as he might, Aaryn couldn’t see any trace of the Legion or the Scourge, but they had to be behind the screaming and rumbling. His eyes darted around searching for any sign. When they darted up, he finally saw something. Two boulders engulfed in yellow-green flames crashed into the front line and then reformed themselves until they had become moving giants. Off in the distance, Aaryn could see their reinforcements charging forward. The Legion’s army looked like something that got sent to hell and was spat back out. Aaryn smirked and met their charge with his blade as the chaos of battle swirled around him. He had survived Lordaeron, the night elves, and a handful of skirmishes in between, but this would be his final battle. The Legion’s army was vast; surely one of them would be able to take his life and give him the death he deserved for failing to protect everything he ever loved. Final Movement: Requiem for an Undying Light His wounds were terrible. Allia had pulled him out of that battle, and watched over him; even going so far as to travel with the fleet heading back to what was left of the Eastern Kingdoms. The times were quieter now that the wars had stopped, and he spent most of his days with her since he had nowhere else to go. However, Allia was not like him. She had a home to go back to, and talked about it all the time. It was clear she cared deeply for him to come all the way to Stormwind, but she cared just as much for the welfare of her people. Aaryn was the only thing keeping her from them; she knew that he had no one to go back to and did not want to cast him into such loneliness. Once he had pieced it all together, he made the decision for her and said he would take her back home. She had done more for him than he deserved, and it was time he returned part of the favor. The road to Menethil Harbor was peaceful. Yet, in a mockery of the peaceful scenery, orcs appeared further up the road; others came out from behind trees and bushes. Aaryn counted about ten of them as they began rushing towards Allia and himself. Not now damn it! Not when we’re so close! “Stay close to me, Allia!” He drew his blade, and barreled into the orcs, yelling and grunting with every swing so that Allia could hear about where he was. The two of them fought as they had fought on Hyjal: Aaryn swinging at anything that came close, with Allia casting spells as best she could. The battle raged on for what seemed like an eternity. In the end, the orcs were defeated, but with great cost. Blood ran from both of their wounds, and neither had the strength to stand. Both of them would hang on until the last, but unless help came soon, they would die. “I have . . . strength enough . . . for one more spell.” Allia said in pained voice. “Save it for yourself.” Aaryn replied in a similar voice. “No. You’ll die.” “Sorry, I can’t . . . die.” he smirked as he coughed up blood “That’s my curse no matter how many . . . times I fight. The undead couldn’t kill me, Tyrande couldn’t kill me, and even the Legion couldn’t kill. . .” his voice trailed off into more bloody coughs. “That’s right, Aaryn.” Allia smiled, and for the first time Aaryn saw tears fall from those sightless eyes. “You can’t die, because I will give you my Light.” She placed her hand on his chest, and warmth spread over him. His wounds closed up and stopped bleeding, and blood in his lungs seemed to evaporate. Then something else happened. A living power latched on to him, and his body glowed with a bright light. Allia’s body went limp and cold as death finally came for her. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “So you wish to join us because you owe someone?” Rainfalle asked. “That’s what I said.” Aaryn replied. He couldn’t save Allia; just like he couldn’t save his family years ago. Allia had given more than her life to save him; she had given him her Light. He couldn’t explain it, nor could the paladins who started training him, but somehow Allia had given him the power of the Light. The only thing he could do to ensure her death wasn’t in vain was to give his life to protect that which Allia cherished most: her people. His days of trying to throw his life away in battle were over. He had a purpose now. “And what was your name again?” “It’s Aaryn. Just Aaryn.” “Very well, Aaryn, we’ll see how you do for now. Welcome to the Moonwood Rangers.” Category:Stories